Aimless Scenarios
by cLoswin
Summary: A collection of Sherlockian drabbles.
1. Motel

They sat side by side on the edge of the side of the deserted outdoor patio deck, the overhanging fluorescent lights flickering in and out unpleasantly. Neither Sherlock nor John had said a word for at least a quarter hour.

Circumstances had been hectic, and the pair of them were exhausted and aching. Although Sherlock had been able to harvest several clues concerning their case and determine the culprit minutes after they arrived at the dingy motel earlier that evening, they'd been unsuccessful in their attempt to catch the guilty tattooed teen as he snuck out of his motel room. It had been quite the chase, and even in their impressively healthy conditions, they'd not been quick enough to stop the bugger before he reached his fiery red motor bike and rode off into the dark.

John let his feet dangle aimlessly over the edge of the pool, his pant legs rolled up to his calves, allowing the highly concentrated chlorine water to tickle the paining pads of his feet. He smiled in his relaxation. Sherlock however, held his bony knees to his chest and cowered from the edge of the pool; obviously not appealed with the idea of even an inch if him becoming wet.

John chuckled at the childishness of his flatmate, and pulled his feet out of the pool. Making his way over to the little pile he'd made with his socks and trainers, he turned toward his scowling partner.

"Well come on then, Sherlock! If we don't get out of here soon, they might force us to buy a room."


	2. Gaze

"Sherlock...?"

John could sense the intent stare focused on the side of his head, leaving him feeling awkward and utterly unnerved. This had been going on for ages. He struggled to focus on the laptop in his lap, with the knowledge his flatmate had been deducing the hell out of him for nearly an hour now. God knows what insanity was whirring through that magnificent brain of his.

John imagined Sherlock pinning him to a drawing board like a monarch butterfly, and studying his every detail. He pictured Sherlock's slender fingers moving closer and closer to his tiny body, clutching the silver pin carefully, finally pushing down with his thumb, piercing John's skin...

John winced. His eyes wandered beside him to where his bonkers of a best mate sat, clad in dressing gown and both of his bony feet tucked underneath his legs. He looked engrossed in his thoughts, most likely unaware of the many social boundaries he was crossing. Perhaps he just didn't care.

Finally, John rotated his body to face Sherlock. His expression speculative, he silently confronted Sherlock for his strange behaviour.

Holding his deep gaze, Sherlock shifted from his slouched position on the sofa until the two men sat face to face, and slowly dragged the corners of his lips into a rare, genuine grin.

"Forgive me. You're very interesting."

John squinted his eyes slightly in confusion. And then, with the only response he could felt appropriate in return to Sherlock's odd, uncomfortable, but curiously warming comment, John let his lips break into a smile of his own.


	3. Steps

John Watson takes a step.

He blinks the damp, disorienting tears from his eyes, and takes a step.

He breathes slowly and carefully; the icy breeze stabbing at his lungs with every intake of breath.

He rubs his eyes roughly, the irritating motion blurring his vision.

He looks up; he absorbs his slightly familiar surroundings.

He catalogs every detail of the scenery; he wants to enjoy what he sees.

He forces a smile.

John takes another step.

And two more.

He gently removes his burly winter coat, and before placing it down, gently fishes though the pockets for an overly abused, obviously previously owned mobile phone.

His hands won't keep still for one bloody second.

Focused on steadying his shaking fingers, he carefully presses each digit of the number on his keypad. Procrastinating. Speed dial is number 1.

John lifts the mobile unsteadily to his left ear.

He speaks. His voice is broken.

He lifts his right hand out in front of him.

He lets the slicing breeze attack his skin.

John takes three more steps.

His toes tip dangerously over the edge.

He tossed the mobile nonchalantly aside of him.

He allows the tears to flow now. They won't really stop now.

He gasps.

John closes his eyes…

"_You've reached the mobile of Sherlock Holmes, do not feel the need to leave a message unless it is of a considerate amount of importance, but if you really must do so, wait for the tone."_

"_Sherlock…I'm sorry. I'm finished, I can't handle another moment of this. It's hell. I won't spend another moment here…alone… I don't care anymore. See you soon."_


End file.
